Chapter 4: Trouble Comes Knocking
Right now, I can completely control my power.
My name is Fay Lorian. Ten years old. A commoner.
That's what I tell everyone, and technically it's true. I live in this little village like any other boy. I help my father with firewood, my mother with chores, and I even play with the other children. But… the difference is that I'm not really "any other boy."
Sometimes the villagers, or even my parents, ask me questions about the strange things I can do. Of course, I never tell them the truth. How could I? If I said, "Oh, I used to be the strongest god in existence, ruler of eternity," they'd probably laugh, faint, or chase me out with pitchforks.
So instead, I give them smaller truths.
When my friends once asked, "Fay, how do you do it? How do you never lose at games? How do you climb faster than anyone? How do you know things no one's taught you?"—I smiled and told them: "I can do anything."
They laughed, thinking it was bragging. But my parents didn't laugh. They froze, staring at me with wide eyes. And when I added, "I can use any sword style, cast any magic spell, even the ones no one's ever heard of. I'm unique," their jaws nearly hit the floor.
I wasn't lying, of course. It just wasn't the whole truth.
---
Even though I say I can "control" my power, well… the word "control" is doing a lot of heavy lifting.
Take last week, for example. I was practicing in the yard, trying to summon a small flame to help my mother with cooking. Simple, right? Just a spark. Instead, I accidentally created a blazing inferno that set the chicken coop on fire. The poor hens are still traumatized.
Or yesterday, when I tried to practice with a wooden training sword. I swung once—just once—and the blade split the air itself, tearing a crack through our old fence, the shed behind it, and half of the neighbor's apple tree. I apologized, of course, but it's hard to apologize when the tree is lying in two neat halves on the ground.
And don't get me started on the house. My parents' poor house has suffered more from me than from time itself. Once, I sneezed, and the roof tiles flew into the sky like startled birds. Another time, I tried to help patch the wall, but I pressed too hard, and the entire wall collapsed inwards. My father sighed so deeply, I thought his soul would leave his body.
They never stay angry, though. My parents are… remarkable. They scold me, yes, but then they laugh, shake their heads, and tell me: "Fay, just try to be careful next time." Even though we all know "careful" doesn't mean much when I'm involved.
---
So here I am, ten years old, a commoner boy who "can do anything." The villagers still whisper about me sometimes—my hair, my eyes, the strange way the world bends when I walk by. Some are afraid, some are curious, but most just shrug and pretend not to notice.
And me? I'm fine with that. I didn't descend from the heavens to sit on a throne again. I came here to live, to stumble, to break things and learn from them. Even if I reduce our home to rubble a dozen more times, I'll keep moving forward.
After all… I'm Fay Lorian now. And this is only the beginning.
----
Life in Avelden village was usually peaceful. Farmers tilled their fields, children chased chickens, and gossip was the greatest weapon anyone wielded. But even the quietest villages weren't safe from trouble.
It started with a group of older boys, about thirteen or fourteen. They thought they were the kings of the village, pushing around younger children and bragging about how strong they were. One day, they spotted me carrying a bucket of water back home.
"Oi, white-hair," the leader sneered, blocking my path. "That's heavy, isn't it? Why don't you hand it over before you trip and spill it everywhere?"
I tilted my head, crimson eyes blinking. "But… I wasn't going to trip."
The other boys laughed. "Listen to him talk! What a weirdo. Always acting like he's special."
I smiled faintly. I don't act like I'm special. I just am. But I kept that thought to myself.
They shoved me, and the bucket wobbled. Water sloshed dangerously close to spilling. Reflexively, I tightened my grip—too much. The wooden handle splintered in my hand, and the entire bucket burst apart, sending water flying like a tidal wave.
The bullies were drenched head to toe.
"W-what the hell was that?!" one sputtered.
"Did you… did you smash the bucket with your bare hand?!"
I scratched my cheek sheepishly. "Oops."
---
That might have been the end of it, but bullies don't like looking foolish. The next day, they tried again. This time, they brought sticks.
"Let's see if you're so smug when we beat you down!" the leader barked.
They charged. I panicked a little—not because I was scared, but because I didn't want to hurt them. I held up my hands. "Wait! You'll get—"
Too late. One swung his stick at my head. Instinct kicked in. My power surged before I could stop it. The stick didn't just break—it disintegrated into dust mid-swing. The boy screamed, stumbling back in shock.
The others froze. I tried to smile reassuringly, but I guess crimson eyes glowing in the sunlight didn't look very friendly.
"Y-you… you're a monster!" one shouted.
They ran, tripping over themselves in their haste to escape.
I sighed. "Great. More rumors."
---
But trouble didn't stop at bullies.
A week later, a pair of traveling bandits thought they could steal from our village. They came at night, thinking no one would notice. Unfortunately for them, I couldn't sleep and had snuck out of bed again.
I saw them sneaking near the storage shed. They carried daggers and wore dark cloaks, whispering about taking grain and tools.
I should've called for Father. I should've gone back inside. But curiosity got the better of me.
"Hey," I called softly. "What are you doing?"
The men spun around, eyes narrowing when they saw only a ten-year-old boy. One grinned cruelly. "Looks like we've been spotted. Guess we'll have to shut him up."
They stepped closer. I blinked, tilting my head. "You shouldn't steal. That's bad."
The second man laughed. "And what'll you do about it, kid? Cry?"
I thought about it. Then shrugged. "No. But maybe this."
I snapped my fingers. Just a tiny spark of power.
The ground under their feet cracked, and suddenly both men were launched into the air as if an invisible giant had swatted them. They screamed, flailing helplessly before landing in the pig pen across the yard.
The pigs squealed, the men groaned, and I tried not to laugh too loudly.
When the villagers came running at the noise, they found two battered bandits trapped in mud and pig slop. Nobody ever figured out how it happened.
---
That night, my parents gave me the look.
"Fay," Father said slowly, "were you… involved?"
I grinned innocently. "Maybe a little?"
Mother sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "One day, you'll bring this whole village down with your 'little accidents.'"
I chuckled sheepishly, scratching the back of my head. "Sorry… but hey, at least the pigs were happy."
They both groaned in unison.
---
I'm Fay Lorian, ten years old, and I can do anything.
Even if that means turning bullies to dust, bandits into pig food, and my parents' home into rubble.
But hey… life's more fun that way, isn't it?
End of Chapter 4